Soaring Eagle
by The Fink
Summary: Twenty years after Libya, The Lady needs a new pilot, and there's only one candidate. There's just one problem: She's got an attitude to match Hawke's. Can they learn to work together, or will the new boss of The Firm decide that shooting is not too good
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: Taylor and Eric belong to Saban/Disney. Hawke belongs to Belsarius Productions. Ben belongs to Ekat. Frank Peterson, Gina and everyone else belong to me. That which is borrowed earns me no money.

This is my twist on the Airwolf universe. The base assumption is that season four doesn't exist (I've not seen it and barely know the plot, which makes it incredibly difficult to write about). There are a couple of other assumptions I've made -- but they'll become clear as this unfolds. 

This is also a sort of a crossover with my on going PR fanfic universe. For those who know that universe, this slots in about a month or so after Barroom Blitz (some ten years prior to the start of Far Future), but you don't need to know that universe. This is essentially a stand-alone story.

Many thanks to Gamine for the beta'ing and checking and being an all round wonderful person. Also thanks to 'Nessa, Mandi, Jacks and anyone else who's seen bits of this as its been developed. Lastly thanks to Nessie for inspiring this story with her wonderful Airwolf trilogy. (Really, go look it up -- it's probably the best piece of AW writing available on the net.)

Please offer feedback -- it tells me how I'm doing... 

~*~

Soaring Eagle

"Oh, Taylor."

The voice made Taylor freeze mid step. "Yes sir?" 

There was a chuckle from behind her. The speaker seemed amused by her reaction. "I don't bite."

She turned to face him and found Eric Myers shaking his head, half-smile on his face. "I know you don't," she retorted primly. "Can I help you?"

He shot her an amused look. Whatever his first impulse was, though, he swallowed it back and simply said, "You mentioned on interview you'd done some chopper flying."

Taylor blinked. "Uh, yeah -- few years ago."

"I know you didn't qualify -- you said you were willing to finish it -- how close **were** you?"

Eyes widening at the questioning, Taylor shrugged. "To be honest, sir, I can't remember. It was a few years ago."

Eric's expression turned pensive. "Hm. How about your fast jets rating?"

"Is this a roundabout way of you asking me to go back into flying?" Taylor asked, not bothering to answer the question.

"No, it's a roundabout way of asking if your rating on fast jets is expired -- and if it is, how expired," Eric retorted, a touch of irritation in his voice now.

"I'm not gonna get a straight answer."

"Not until I have one, no -- and not necessarily then, either." Eric folded his arms. "Taylor, I wouldn't be playing twenty-questions with you if it wasn't important. Believe me, I have a pile of paperwork I could be doing right now and which is liable to be keeping me here until after Alice's bedtime at this rate."

"Fine." Taylor sighed, exasperated. "My rating is expired. It expired about eighteen months ago. But since then and six weeks ago, I've been piloting a zord, which is at least as complicated as an F18 -- if not more so. Would take me two sessions tops to get my wings back."

"Cocky bitch." But it was said without rancour. As much of a compliment as an ex-Marine Sergeant could manage for an ex-Air Force Lieutenant. 

"Yeah, yeah, jarhead," Taylor shot back.

He just offered that irritating half-smile/half-smirk. "Thanks, Taylor." He turned on his heel and started to walk off.

"Hold on a goddamn minute!" Taylor exclaimed. "You don't go through all that rigmarole with me then not give me an explanation."

Eric paused. "Commander Earhardt..." 

__

Oh shit. Taylor winced.

"...don't make me pull rank." The words were good humoured, but there was an edge to them that made his point. "I'll expect to see you in my office at two thirty this afternoon."

And with that, he walked away, leaving Taylor to quietly fume. _I had to go run off at the mouth...but he's an arrogant son of a bitch. A real piece o'work._ She grimaced.

"Someone's been tangling with the boss again," observed a fresh voice.

"Uhg. How did you guess?" Taylor retorted, groaning. "Ben -- I swear that man was born impossible."

Ben chuckled and offered her a shoulder squeeze. "Nah. Took him practice. And if you think he's bad now, you shoulda met him when he first started here." He grinned wolfishly. "He was worse."

Taylor stared at Ben for a moment, trying to work out if he was kidding, and decided he wasn't. "I'da remembered him as a jarhead if he'd been this much of a pain in the ass in Germany -- what did the attitude adjustment? Electro-therapy?"

Ben's smile faded. "Not funny, girl. And ain't my place to tell you. Only found out myself by default when it all blew up. Nu-uh." He shook his head. "Don't ask me. You wanna know, you ask him."

Taylor snorted inelegantly. "And get my ass handed to me on a platter -- no thank you."

"In that case take it from me that he's more than earned the right to be the sonovabitch he is."

The space in Ben's words was enough for Taylor to add two and two. She wasn't sure where the Marines who'd arrived with her in Germany had been rotated to, but she did know that posting had been a staging point for postings to Yugoslavia -- and she'd heard rumours about some things that had gone down in that part of the world. If Eric'd been involved in any of that... 

"So he's earned the right to be a cranky wise-ass. Does it mean he's **gotta** pull this shit with me?"

Ben smirked. "Does it mean **you** gotta fall for it every time?"

Taylor lifted an eyebrow. "Who's side're you on anyway?"

Ben's smirk turned to an outright grin. "My own."

Taylor growled. "I have stuff to do." She moved to stalk off.

Ben just chuckled. "Well, make sure you're in Eric's office by two thirty."

She stopped and span round to face him. "How'd you know about that?"

Ben just smiled. "Call it a perk of writing personnel rosters -- as of," he paused and looked at his watch, "twenty minutes ago, you're pulled from all assignments, pending this meeting. And no," he added, "I don't know what it's about."

And before she could say anything else, Ben had disappeared. Taylor sighed. Some days, you just couldn't win.

~*~

At two twenty-five, Taylor made her way up to Eric's office. Whatever this was going to be about, she was determined not to give Eric any edge over her. He was difficult enough to deal with without handing over something as easy as being late.

Gina was hard at work over paperwork -- and to judge from the pile, Eric hadn't been exaggerating, Taylor realised -- although she looked up as Taylor entered the antechamber.

"Go on through, Taylor," Gina advised. "He's expecting you."

__

Damn -- can't even be early to surprise him, Taylor found herself thinking, somewhat irrationally. Dismissing the thought and smiling at Gina, she did as she was bidden and entered Eric's office.

The room was large. Easily the same size as the smaller of the two conference rooms on the first floor of SGHQ, it could have been taken as a matter of ego that the boss had the biggest office -- except Taylor knew full well it wasn't. It had been a combination of Ben, Wes and Jen that had forced Eric into taking an office larger than a broom closet. As they had argued, Eric's office wasn't just his office, it tended to be the base of operations as well. The compromise was that the room had been partitioned with light, head-high screens, which could be moved around at will. One half of the room -- the half first seen when you entered -- was arranged as a lounge. A couple of comfortable chairs and a couch had been set around a low table. It was an area designed for informal meetings. _Or for waiting to face the firing squad,_ Taylor couldn't help but think, because it was where people waited to see Eric for any sort of interview. The other side of the partition was Eric's real office. That was something that Taylor had so far not seen, but she guessed it was probably Spartan -- just a desk with two chairs. She couldn't imagine Eric having anything more lavish than that.

"Ah -- Taylor." Eric had appeared while she'd been wool gathering. It surprised her, somewhat, to see him carrying a tray of coffee cups, cream, sugar and a jug of rich, dark coffee. "Good."

__

Good? Aloud she responded, "Reporting as ordered, sir."

Eric offered her a smile. "Well move your duly reported butt and let me put this down."

"Your command style," said a new voice, "leaves something to be desired, Eric."

"Yeah, yeah, Frank. Not all of us get to go to West Point," Eric retorted, even as Taylor was dumbly moving aside, cursing inwardly. "Besides. In case you've forgotten, I still have pins in my right leg and this tray is heavy."

__

Pins? The comment brought Taylor up short in her indignation. _I know he was only just out of plaster when I first met him but surely..._

"High velocity, hollow point sniper round," Eric stated, setting the tray down on the table, "will tend to make a mess of your femur."

Taylor stared. "Huh?!"

"It's a long story," said the new voice, as its owner finally managed to enter the office. "And not terribly germane." 

Taylor got a good look at the man as he took up a seat on the couch. He was tall, easily over-topping Eric's relatively short stature, and willowy in build -- although Taylor was willing to bet he gave as good as he got in a fight; there was something very predatory about the way he moved. The military haircut he sported furthered that suspicion, although the craggy, chiselled features and the salt-and-pepper dappling to his hair suggested that if he **was** military, he was very senior or retired. The most disconcerting thing, though, was the eerie familiarity to his face. Taylor knew she knew his features, the shape of his face, heck, even the relaxed yet alert posture. It was all familiar and yet she couldn't place it.

"Frank," Eric stated, as he sat down. "This is Taylor Earhardt -- formerly a lieutenant in the USAF. Taylor -- Colonel Frank Peterson...still military Intel?"

Frank offered a smile. "Yes and no. I'm on assignment with another body, but officially..." He shrugged.

"Help yourselves to coffee," Eric directed. Taylor leaned forwards and did just that. "How long will...?"

Almost as if cued, Gina poked her head into the office. "Vanessa's just sent Mr Hawke up."

"That answers that," Frank observed.

Taylor sat back and debated asking a snide and pointed question about what the hell was going on. Then she felt Eric's eyes on her. The expression on his face told her he was waiting for her to do just that. _Not gonna give you the satisfaction._ She sipped her coffee instead.

Eric smirked.

Taylor ground her teeth.

The door opened to admit another man Taylor had never met before. Like Peterson, he had a wiry, slender build. His hair was streaked with grey, which combined with the pronounced lines on his face suggested to Taylor that he was Peterson's senior and by some margin. And yet there was something to his movements that suggested that wasn't true. Aged by experience, then, rather than years.

"This it?" the stranger asked, tone brusque.

__

Someone with a worse attitude than Eric! Taylor mused.

At a nod from Eric, Peterson agreed, "This is it." Taylor half expected the stranger to offer some sort of snide remark, but he didn't. Instead he just took up a seat and helped himself to coffee. "I guess a few proper introductions are in order." Eric nodded. "String, this is Eric Myers, head of the Silver Guardians -- Eric; Stringfellow Hawke."

Taylor choked on her coffee. _Stringfellow? Geez -- and I thought my mom was heartless -- at least she left me with an alternative..._

There was a tiny flicker of amusement across Hawke's otherwise impassive face. "It was m'mom's idea. Not mine."

Taylor found herself blushing.

With a roll of his eyes, Eric said, "This is Taylor Earhardt."

Hawke gave a nod and said nothing.

"If I may?" said Peterson, with the introductions out of the way. "I'm currently being employed by a branch of the intelligence community called The Firm." Taylor noted that Hawke rolled his eyes at that. "We look after aspects of national security that are too hot for other agencies to deal with."

"And something's come up." That was Hawke.

"Well, that's all very nice," said Taylor, "but what does it have to do with me? Or the Silver Guardians as a whole?"

"I need a pilot." Peterson smiled. "A very particular pilot for a very particular, extremely classified aircraft."

Taylor's eyebrows lifted at the unspoken implication.

"Read your file," said Hawke shortly. Taylor's eyes widened at that. "You're it."

"What do you mean 'I'm it'?" Taylor asked. "If you read my file you'll know I quit flying two years ago."

Peterson shot Hawke a jaundiced look. "Ms Earhardt, the aircraft we need you to pilot is extremely specialised, and not just in terms of technology. Mr Hawke and I were looking for an individual based on a specific skill set and personality profile. You matched ten for ten, even allowing for the two-year gap."

"I..." Taylor stopped. "Surely there were other people who matched. People who don't have two-year gaps in their resumes."

"I'm told," at this Peterson glanced at Eric, who was sitting, arms folded across his chest looking impassive, "that there is something you've been doing in that gap that would count instead." Taylor had no answer to that. "Besides, of the people we looked at -- and we reviewed over three hundred candidates -- you were the only one who matched."

"'Sides," Hawke tossed in, "doesn't it fit with your first name?"

Taylor stared at him.

"First name?" said Eric, sounding surprised.

Hawke merely displayed that glimmer of humour again. "Doesn't it, Ms Earhardt?"

Taylor glared at Hawke. "Like you said, buddy, wasn't my idea."

"Laying that aside," Peterson continued, likewise glaring at Hawke, "you are the best person for this job. Will you do it?"

"And have to work with him?" Taylor jerked her head in Hawke's direction. "No thanks."

The look Peterson treated Hawke to clearly said 'now look what you've done'. Hawke shrugged. "Ms Earhardt..."

"Frank -- allow me," said Eric, getting to his feet. The look on his face told Taylor this wasn't an optional 'chat'. "Taylor?"

Reluctantly, she stood up and followed him into the other half of the office.

"One thing," he said quietly, although the lack of volume didn't prevent his irritation from showing through. "Frank can -- and will, if he needs to -- order you to do this, and I can't stop him from doing that. I think we'd all sooner you did this voluntarily."

Taylor stared. "He can't do that!"

"Oh yes he can," Eric retorted. "That man has enough pull in enough departments to make your life thoroughly unpleasant if he wanted to -- which he doesn't. And he wouldn't need to, either. All he needs to do is reactivate your commission, have you declared AWOL..."

"He...this is blackmail!"

"No, this is political hardball," Eric answered grimly. "It's also a matter of national security -- which tends to give people a lot of latitude."

"You know what's going on?"

"I know something," Eric agreed. "And I know Frank. More to the point, didn't you say you wanted to work for the SGs because you wanted to continue making a difference?"

"Now who's playing political freakin' hardball," Taylor shot back, temper roused.

Eric shrugged. "I never said I wasn't. Taylor, do yourself -- and me -- a favour. Stop looking for people being out to get you. I know you had problems with Remart. I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they didn't end with that night in the bar. Frank sure as shit isn't like that. Nor is Hawke."

Taylor stared. "I don't think like that!" she exclaimed, although a little voice at the back of her mind retorted, _Don't you?_ "I don't."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Who're you trying to convince? Me or you?" He shook his head. "Look. This is probably not the time to be getting into psychoanalysis. Peterson needs a positive answer..."

"All right, all goddamn right." Taylor glared. "You are such a pain in the ass. You know that?"

"So they tell me," Eric retorted, heading back towards the lounge area.

With no other alternative, Taylor followed. Hawke, she noted, looked fractionally contrite -- or at any rate, a fraction less impassive. _Peterson chewed you out too, huh?_

"Ms Earhardt," Peterson began as she sat down once more, "have you reconsidered?"

Conscious of Eric giving her a 'do this or else' type of glare, Taylor sighed. "Yes. All right. Whatever it is you want me to do. I'm in."

Peterson nodded. "Good." He glanced at Eric. "She'll be back at the end of next week."

__

Huh? Taylor blinked. "I...what?"

"In due time, Ms Earhardt," said Peterson somewhat condescendingly. Surprisingly, that earned her a sympathetic look from Hawke. "A week, then, Eric."

"OK, Frank." Eric nodded. "Good luck, Taylor." And before Taylor could respond, Eric had stood up and left the office, leaving her alone with Peterson and Hawke.

* * *

__

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Part 2

Disclaimer: See part 1 -- nothing's changed!

With thanks to Gamine for looking over this and nit spotting for me. Also thanks to Laura (glad you're back!) for offering a few salient bits of advice.

Please offer feedback, it tells me how I'm doing.

~*~

There was a long moment of silence in Eric's office. Taylor was completely stunned by Eric's departure -- and decidedly uncomfortable being alone with two people who clearly knew a great deal about her.

Peterson cleared his throat. "The situation is this, Ms Earhardt. At twenty-three hundred hours last night, there was a break in at a research station in the Sierra Nevada. Amongst the information stolen was data pertinent to a top secret national defence project."

"Son of the son of Star Wars," Hawke joked, earning him a glare from Peterson. Hawke looked unrepentant.

"Obviously," Peterson continued, "we need to reacquire that data before the undesirables who have their hands on it can decode it and put it to use, which is where you come in."

"Me?" Taylor echoed.

Peterson nodded. "There is only one aircraft that has the necessary attributes to get in and get out again with the stolen data. It is, as I said earlier, an extremely classified aircraft."

"Are we talking an F-117 here?" Taylor asked.

Hawke snorted. The almost-grin on his face suggested he was trying not to laugh.

"No," said Peterson, glaring at Hawke again. "It's not a 'plane, and when I say classified, I mean it is classified. The F-117 is hardly that any more." Taylor shrugged. "It's a compound rotorcraft. It has all the attributes of a helicopter -- it can hover, it can turn on rotor torque without banking, it can land on the head of a pin, so to speak -- but it also has two turbo-fan jet engines installed on winglets..."

"She can outrun a MIG 29 and outshoot just about anything you care to name," put in Hawke.

Taylor stared at both men, incredulous. "You want me to fly a what?" she finally managed. "That's not possible! Those...you can't..." She stopped, swallowed and managed to pull her thoughts into coherence. "You have to be crazy. You can't make a helicopter do what a fighter jet can do and vice versa. It's..."

"...the fastest way to a carbide pancake," said Hawke. "Was more or less my reaction."

Taylor started to nod, then froze as the implications of Hawke's words sank in. "You're serious."

"Deadly," said Peterson. "It's the principle reason why there are only a limited number of people who are qualified to fly it, mentally and physically. It's why, out of three hundred people we reviewed, you were the only person to match the criteria."

Taylor slowly shook her head. This had to be the dumbest thing she'd ever agreed to do. She had minimal experience with choppers, never having completed the training; she had no experience at all with compound rotorcraft...and they wanted her to fly something that sounded like it broke most laws of physics. "You're crazy."

"But you're going to do it," said Peterson.

"I take it back," Taylor muttered. "It's not you that's crazy, it's me."

Hawke offered her a half smile. "Welcome to the club."

~*~

Taylor wasn't entirely surprised to find a limo waiting outside SGHQ. Nor was she surprised when Peterson indicated she should get into it. What **did** surprise her was the destination of the limo journey: Silverhills municipal airport.

"I'll see you both at Knightsbridge tomorrow," Peterson stated.

"Huh?" said Taylor.

"Time to meet The Lady," said Hawke.

Taylor swivelled her gaze from Hawke to Peterson and back. "OK. In some parallel universe, that probably makes sense."

Peterson, to her surprise, smiled. "I will leave you in Mr Hawke's extremely capable hands."

"Oh great," Taylor mumbled. Louder she said, "And he...we...are going to do what, exactly?"

"Start your flight training," said Hawke, a smirk on his face.

Taylor stared at Hawke. "No sims?"

That provoked an outright laugh from him.

"Hawke," said Peterson warningly. "Play nicely."

"I always play nicely," Hawke retorted.

Peterson muttered something that, to Taylor, sounded suspiciously like, "Like hell you do." Louder, Peterson said, "OK. Out. I have to get back to Knightsbridge today to play hunt the needle in the haystack."

"Bossy sonuvabitch," Taylor muttered, climbing out of the limo on command all the same. She was more sure than ever Peterson reminded her of someone but she really couldn't place the similarity. _It'll probably hit me at three am in the middle of a mission or something,_ she mused.

Hawke followed suit in climbing out of the limo and a moment later, it drove off.

"So where is this wonder-chopper?" Taylor demanded.

Hawke gave her a smirk. "It's a top secret military aircraft, so you're expecting it to just be sitting on the apron of your local airport?"

"Hiding in plain sight," Taylor retorted, shrugging.

"Well, it's not," said Hawke, still smirking and heading across the tarmac towards a standard, white Bell helicopter of some description. "But that," and he inclined his head in the direction of the white chopper, "is our ride up to The Lair."

"The Lair. Of course it is." Taylor hurried after him. "What the hell is The Lair supposed to be?"

"Cave," said Hawke.

"Cave." Taylor rolled her eyes. "Has anyone told you that getting information out of you is like..."

"...Getting blood from a stone," finished Hawke with a smirk.

"And I thought Eric Myers was bad." Taylor groaned.

"Look," said Hawke as he put his hand on the chopper cabin door. "Quit with twenty questions and you'll get information."

"I don't do patience."

"No shit." Hawke opened the chopper cabin door and gestured for her to get in.

"Would you, roles reversed?" Taylor asked, climbing in and noting he'd asked her to get into the right seat. He was expecting her to pilot this where they were going?!

"I didn't." Hawke climbed into the left seat. "And no, you're not flying all the way to The Lair -- but some of it, once we're clear of civilisation."

Suddenly, finding out where they were going and what was going on seemed of secondary importance. "You do realise I never finished qualifying to fly these things?"

Hawke chuckled and pulled on a headset. Taylor followed suit as Hawke fired up the turbines and the rotors started to turn. "I know."

"You're nuts."

"Cinch in," was the only response.

As Taylor did as she was told, she heard Hawke requesting, and receiving, permission to take off. Moments later, they were off and away, heading, so the instruments told her, north east.

"Airwolf -- Peterson's classified aircraft," Hawke began, "isn't hangared at Knightsbridge."

"I guessed that," said Taylor dryly. "I'm also gonna guess that The Lair is where she is hangared."

"Go to the top of the class," Hawke replied, amusement in his tone. "I guess your next question is 'why' -- to which the answer is pretty complicated."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"OK -- time to take control of this baby," said Hawke. "Just keep her heading as she is, at this altitude. Nothing fancy."

Questions about the whys of Airwolf's hangaring arrangements fled as Taylor found herself pilot-in-charge of the chopper. There was a brief moment of sheer panic, particularly as the altitude suddenly started to drop.

"It's OK. Power-lift. You've got her." Hawke's tone was that of an experienced flight instructor and that, more than anything, broke the sense of panic.

She could do this. Easing back on the collective, the altitude started to climb back up. This wasn't so different from the first time she'd taken the stick, she realised. Only the circumstances were different. Then it had been an outright lesson. This was...well Taylor wasn't entirely sure what it was.

"Adjust your heading a little," Hawke advised. "Bring her round to north-north-east then keep her steady."

"Got it."

Hawke presumably judged she had with that statement because the next thing he said was, "For a start, The Lair was my way of keeping control of Airwolf to force The Firm to keep looking for MIAs in Viet Nam...in particular, my brother."

"You stole a top secret helicopter from the government?" Taylor wasn't sure whether to be appalled or impressed.

"No -- I stole it from the guy who did that. I just didn't give it back." Hawke sounded unrepentant.

Taylor wondered if that was really any better -- and decided it didn't matter. "Did they...?"

"Eventually." The tightness to Hawke's answer told Taylor she didn't want to push any further. "I tried to keep my end of the deal -- tried to give Airwolf back. Trouble was," and Hawke sounded more amused now, "The Firm had figured out that realistically, there were only a handful of people who could fly her; I happened to be the best at it, and the added bonus was, keeping Airwolf at The Lair meant that 'interested parties' -- like, say, the Soviets, or the Chinese, or bin Laden...whoever -- would have a real hard job of stealing her because there was only two people who knew where she was. If she was at Knightsbridge, there'd be a lot of people who'd have to know because they'd see her everyday..."

"And that would mean the interested parties would be more likely to find her and steal her," Taylor completed.

"Got it in one." 

"So you got to keep her?"

"More or less," Hawke agreed. "I do -- did -- The Firm's business when necessary, they keep Airwolf in avgas, parts and upgrades. Watch your heading -- she's drifting a bit to the north, need to keep north-north-east."

Taylor corrected the course. "So what's with the past tense of that?" she asked.

"Combat flying is a game for the young," Hawke answered. "And I'm not getting any younger." Taylor debated whether to ask the obvious question. "Before you ask," he continued, "young enough not to be your father. Just about."

"I don't **always** ask the obvious," Taylor muttered.

Hawke's only response was a dry chuckle.

They flew on for another half an hour in comparative silence until Hawke said, "OK, we're going to come in to land at the base of the mountain you can see at two o'clock." Taylor glanced up to see what he was talking about and nodded. "I want you to bring us to a hover over the landing zone, then gently start to descend."

Taylor swallowed. Hawke **had** to be nuts.

"Just nice and slow," said Hawke calmly. "Ease back on the stick. Set pitch to hover. Now start to descend. Keep her straight -- watch the yaw, she's drifting round to port...OK, you've got her."

The steady, calm instructions focussed Taylor's attention, preventing the panic that was once again threatening. Following the instructions, the chopper descended in near-perfect fashion. As the skids finally touched down, Hawke nodded appreciatively. 

"Good job." Taylor had already got the impression he didn't say things he didn't mean, so she took it as the unstinting praise it was probably intended to be. "OK, shut her down and we'll go inside."

"Inside?" Taylor echoed, doing as she was told.

Hawke chuckled. "The Lair. We've arrived."

Taylor sighed and shook her head. "Silly me."

A moment or two later and Taylor followed Hawke through a narrow fissure in what was otherwise a solid rock wall and found herself standing in a cave. At the centre, apparently spot-lit, was a matt-black helicopter.

Seen from nose on, it looked vaguely shark-like and slightly malevolent. The thin sliver of white-underbelly she could see made the chopper look as if it had a shark's gaping, low-slung jaw and every line and curve suggested this was not just a predator but a super-predator. It was a beautiful, deadly machine.

"Meet The Lady," said Hawke, just a touch of pride in his voice.

Taylor said nothing -- largely because there was nothing to say. The view rather neatly said it all. 

"Oh you were born for this," Hawke murmured. "I can see it." He gave a chuckle. "If Michael was here, he'd probably be cursing blind."

Taylor blinked, spell broken. "Michael?"

"Michael Coldsmith Briggs III," said Hawke. "He set up the Airwolf project -- he's Peterson's predecessor."

Taylor waited for further elaboration. When none seemed to be forthcoming, she prompted, "And he'd be cursing now because...?"

"Because you're giving The Lady the same look now I gave her first time I saw her." Hawke sounded amused. "Michael always figured I was one of a kind. Or maybe that should have been hoped..."

At that, Taylor found herself grinning. That sounded familiar.

~*~

The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent going over Airwolf with a fine tooth comb. Hawke talked Taylor through all of the black helicopter's little quirks and major systems -- a dizzying array of information that Taylor knew she wasn't going to be able to remember.

The one thing that did stick in her mind was the answer to her first question: "How do you get her in and out of here?"

For answer, Hawke had pointed upwards. Taylor had looked up and realised that what she'd initially taken for spotlighting was actually natural light coming down through a long, narrow rock chimney.

"You have four feet of clearance port and starboard, between five and six feet forward and aft," Hawke explained. "Beyond that, it's a five hundred foot straight ascent/descent."

"That's why you had me do the landing that way," she realised, feeling just a few qualms -- the clearance might sound a lot, but in practical terms it was very little. One wrong flinch and the rotors would foul against the chimney walls, which would end the flight really quickly.

Hawke nodded. "Yup -- and you'll be practicing that plenty more times, too."

It was Taylor's turn to nod. _I must be nuts._

"We'll go up early tomorrow morning," Hawke promised as the explanations wound down. "Give you a chance to put in some practice."

Taylor suddenly had a horrible thought. "You're...you wouldn't..."

"I wouldn't," Hawke agreed. Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm crazy but I'm not suicidal."

"So what happens now?" Taylor asked

"Rack time," said Hawke succinctly. "Tomorrow's gonna be tough."

* * *

__

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Part 3

Disclaimer: See part 1 -- nothing's changed!

Your eyes do not deceive you, this really is part 3 of Soaring Eagle. It's been nearly three years in the making; it's been through the writer's block from hell…heck, it's even survived three PC changes and hard drive crashes! But it's here. If you're still reading, thank you for your patience and forbearance. I can't entirely promise that part 4 will be out in a week's time, but I'm hoping you'll at least get two updates this month!

* * *

The snap of a light switch pulled Taylor from her sleep and for a few seconds she blinked owlishly against the sudden influx of light, trying to recall just where she was.

"Time to get up," said a dry voice.

It came back to her in a rush. She was in a log cabin somewhere vaguely near Lake Tahoe. She was staying with a man called Stringfellow Hawke. She was about to pilot something that broke all the rules of aeronautical engineering she could think of and then some.

Perhaps sleep had been a better alternative.

Taylor closed her eyes. "It can't be time to get up already." The only answer was the soft thud of clothing being tossed onto the end of the bed, followed by a louder thud as something heavier was dropped onto the floor. "It's official. I'm crazy."

Hawke chuckled. "There's coffee downstairs."

Taylor forced herself to open her eyes again. What he'd thrown onto the bed proved to be a silver-grey flight suit. "You're really serious about this."

Hawke just gave a half smile. "Y'got ten minutes. Make it quick." And with that, he turned and headed out of the bedroom.

A moment later and Taylor heard him descend the stairs. She groaned. _Guess I've gotta get up._ She struggled out of bed and picked up the flight suit. From the looks of it, it was probably the correct size. Not for the first time, she was disturbed by just how much Peterson, and by extension Hawke, knew about her.

That just led her to the obvious next question: Where did Eric know Peterson from? And why? As Taylor slid one leg into the chilly synthetic flight suit, she idly wondered what would happen if she asked Eric about it. She snorted and slid her other leg into the flight suit. She knew damn well what would happen: He'd give her some sort of non-answer, smirk and leave her to stew in her own annoyance. She hiked the suit up over her hips and thrust her arms into its sleeves.

God but it was cold; hadn't they invented a flight suit that retained the damn heat yet?

Sliding the zipper up until it the suit was most of the way fastened, Taylor glanced around the room and spotted the other thing Hawke had dumped: a brand new pair of flight boots. _And I'll just bet they're the perfect fit, too._ She sighed. As creepy as it was to know that Peterson knew her exact measurements, it did mean she'd be comfortable.

"Five minutes," Hawke called from somewhere below.

Taylor shook her head. With little other choice available to her, she pulled the boots on and fastened them securely. Then, just as she heard footsteps on the stairs, she headed out of the room.

There was Hawke, just starting to climb the stairs – presumably to see what was taking her so 'long'. For the first time, she noted that he was dressed in a similar looking flight suit to her own, except his looked rather more beaten up and used. Irrelevantly, Taylor wondered how old the flight suit was.

"Coffee?" he asked, offering her the cup he was holding.

Biting back a yawn, Taylor shook her head. "I'm good, thanks."

Hawke eyed her suspiciously but said nothing. Instead, he turned and headed back down the stairs. Taylor followed, noting that it was still dark outside. What the hell time was it, anyway?

She'd decided the previous evening that the cabin was a peculiar place to live. Now, as she entered the cabin's main room, she was even more convinced of that fact. There were none of the normally expected electronic gadgets – no television, no computer and the hi-fi looked as if it was almost older than she was – which gave the whole place a very back-woodsy feel. The walls of the living room half of the cabin's first floor were lined with frames, the contents of which were split roughly fifty-fifty between photographs and oil paintings. The only place that varied even a little was one corner, farthest away from the stairs, where a bar had been set up. Then, incongruously, in the opposite corner, stood a cello. Those two things, more than anything, suggested Hawke was a man of a great many contradictions.

"C'mere," said Hawke, dragging Taylor away from her thoughts. He'd spread a large chart out over the dining table and was now giving her an almost impatient look.

Taylor shrugged and complied. The chart proved to be one showing the local area.

"If you're done turning your nose up at my home," said Hawke a little pointedly, "maybe you'd like to pay attention to what we're going to be doing?"

"Can you blame me for being curious?"

"Yeah." Hawke jabbed his finger down onto the chart. "Peterson called. Looks like he's found his needle and needs us to go get it – and get it yesterday."

Any irritation Taylor might have been feeling at his brusque response was suddenly swallowed by a wash of fear. "Excuse me, what?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Hawke's face. "It means your flying lessons just got cancelled. It also means we're gonna have to do this a little different."

"How different?"

"You'll see on the way down to Knightsbridge." Hawke moved his finger slightly and Taylor realised that was what he was indicating on the chart. "First thing is, we pick up the Lady. Then we head to Knightsbridge to meet with Peterson. What we do after that---"

"Depends on what Peterson has to say. Right?"

This time, albeit just for a second or two, Hawke actually did smile. "Got it in one."

Taylor studied the chart. "What is Knightsbridge?"

"The Firm's Californian headquarters," Hawke answered.

"On the edge of the desert, huh?" Taylor glanced up. "Is that so they can hide the bodies?"

Hawke tipped his head back and laughed. "I think Michael might have threatened me with that a couple of times."

Taylor grinned. "I bet."

"Flight time down there's normally an hour from the lair."

Taylor looked at the chart again and judged that probably meant without the help of the turbo engines. "Are you planning on it being quicker?"

"Much." Hawke paused. "You've flown fast jets?"

"Yep."

"Good." Hawke rolled the chart up. "Ready?"

Taylor felt her stomach lurch. "Sure."

Hawke shot her an amused look. "Nobody's gonna be shooting at us." He started towards the cabin's door. "Yet."

Taylor decided that wasn't a comforting thought.

* * *

The lair was almost pitch black when they arrived and for a moment, at least, Taylor wondered how they were supposed to cross the cave's uneven floor without breaking their necks. Then Hawk produced a large flashlight and switched it on. It didn't exactly light the whole cave, but it was certainly powerful enough for the short trip across the pitted ground.

"Take the rear seat," Hawke directed as they reached Airwolf's nose.

"Flight engineer?" Taylor queried, a little surprised.

"You can read a radar screen, right?"

"Right."

"Then yeah; flight engineer," Hawke replied a little tersely. "Get in."

Taylor leaned on Airwolf's nose. "All right, what am I missing here? I know you said Peterson wants us there like yesterday but---"

"Let's just say it got a whole bunch more personal."

"And let's not," Taylor retorted. "I need something more to go on than just that."

In the semi-darkness, Taylor couldn't be sure, but she thought Hawke was grinding his teeth. "Get in."

"I'm not---"

"Get in," Hawke repeated, popping the hatch. "I'll explain on the way to Knightsbridge."

It wasn't much, Taylor reflected, but it was clearly the best she was going to get.

She climbed into the chopper and took up the flight engineer's seat. As she sat down all the surrounding monitors came online with an electronic hum. It reminded her of the way Eaglezord had recognised her presence, though it was disconcerting to see it in a helicopter – even if it was one rather more advanced than any that the Air Force used. From somewhere overhead, she heard the sound of the turbines beginning to crank up. To kill the noise, Taylor pulled on the helmet that had been resting on the small ledge in front of the seat. It didn't fit perfectly, but it did reduce the din and let her hear herself think.

"All set?" Hawke enquired, making Taylor jump.

"Uh…" She looked around at the various screens available to her and checked all the readouts. They all looked fine. "Yeah."

To her annoyance, Hawke just chuckled and began the assent up out of the lair.

It was annoyance that faded in the face of the sensation of flying once more. Hawke and Peterson had that part of it right; flying was very much a part of her and while she might have told herself that she didn't miss it, during the long and frequently boring shifts as a Silver Guardian, as Airwolf emerged at the top of the chimney, Taylor knew how badly she'd been kidding herself.

"Gimme turbos one and two," Hawke ordered as he oriented Airwolf south and began the journey to Knightsbridge.

The buttons for them were just beside her right knee. Taylor pushed them in sequence. "You got them."

"Hang on."

That was all the warning Taylor received as the turbos kicked in with a roar and a rate of acceleration that slapped her back against her seat. She didn't need to look at the readouts to know they were now speeding along at a speed no normal helicopter would do. She looked anyway and discovered their speed was just above Mach 1.

"You want explanation."

Hawke's words came as a flat statement rather than a question, but Taylor felt compelled to answer: "I think you owe me that much."

Hawke snorted, suggesting he didn't consider he owed anything of the sort, but condescended to say, "Peterson's needle's turned up in Kazmiristan."

"Russian?"

"Used to be." Hawke paused. "It was one of the first places to break away when that whole part of the world fell apart."

"So what about it?" Taylor asked.

"There used to be a big Soviet prison camp there," said Hawke. "Under the command of a man called Uri Grigovic. It was one of the places they put people to forget about them. Grigovic made use of that."

Taylor decided she could probably work out what that meant. Even if the phrase was vague, the sheer disgust and anger in Hawke's words filled in the gaps. She shuddered.

"It was wear the Viet Cong sent my brother," said Hawke softly.

Taylor shivered again. "And you found him?"

"Too late."

There wasn't a great deal Taylor could say in response to that. She couldn't even begin to imagine what Hawke had found there, or what else had happened. But she was beginning to understand just what he'd got against their likely destination.

After a lengthy pause, Hawke continued, "The camp got remodelled. Extensively. I thought Grigovic had died in the mess. I was wrong."

"How do you know?" Taylor asked, but even as she voiced the question, the answer hit her. "Wait. He's the one with Peterson's info."

"It's a lure," said Hawke. "He wants me."

_I'm not paranoid, but the man following me is,_ Taylor thought. Then she frowned. From everything she'd been told, and everything she'd guessed, Hawke had been the keeper and owner of a top-secret governmental project for nearing twenty years. That was probably more than long enough to develop any paranoid tendencies you might have had. _And maybe they really have been out to get him,_ she decided.

She might have liked to ask more, but at that moment there came a radio hail from Knightsbridge tower and a few moments later, Airwolf was settling down on the concrete apron of the Knightsbridge Centre as if she was any other helicopter.

"Time to get answers," Hawke growled, barely waiting for the turbines to begin shutting down before he bounced out of the cockpit.

"Not without me you don't," Taylor muttered, and followed. She had a feeling the next few minutes were going to be very interesting.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. Part 4

Disclaimer: See part 1, nothing's changed!

Not quite as fast as I'd hoped, but certainly not as slow as I feared, here is the next instalment. Thank you very much for your patience! Part 5 should be with you in a couple of weeks.

* * *

Dawn was just barely breaking over the airfield as Taylor climbed out of Airwolf. Ahead of her, Hawke had already achieved quite a lead, but just when she thought she was going to lose him altogether, his progress was halted. The door into the building swung open and, to Taylor's amusement, Hawke found himself having to step back a couple of paces to allow no lesser person than Peterson himself to exit.

Taylor hurried to catch up as Hawke began to vent his annoyance on a visibly weary but no less annoyed Peterson.

"You done?" Peterson demanded as Taylor joined the group.

Hawke glared but said no more.

"Good." Peterson folded his arms across his chest and stared at Hawke. "Now, you're going to listen to me, and you're going to pay close attention because I am not saying this twice: I agree with you. I think this whole thing stinks of a set up. I think Grigovic wants to get his hands on Airwolf and he's trying to use this stolen data as leverage."

Hawke's jaw had hinged open in outright shock during this diatribe. It was an emotion that, Taylor suspected, Hawke wasn't all that used to.

"If you're sure it's a trap," she said, seizing on the moment of silence to announce her presence to both men, "then why are you sending Airwolf after the data?"

Peterson's shoulders slumped. "Because trap or not, that data needs to be back in our hands sooner rather than later."

"And Airwolf's the best way to get it?"

"It's the only way to get it without this whole mess becoming an international incident," Peterson answered.

Taylor blinked. "Am I missing something here? I'd have thought this already **was** an international incident."

"Hawke wasn't far wrong when he said the data was the son of the son of Star Wars," Peterson admitted. "It's an experimental satellite that, officially, records weather patterns and climate change. Unofficially---"

"Unofficially, you're snooping into our allies' backyards," Hawke finished, his face having returned to its more normal impassive expression.

Taylor waited for Peterson to deny it, but the older man simply looked sheepish and said nothing. Taylor wasn't sure whether to be shocked by the tacit admission or if she should perhaps just pretend it hadn't been made.

"So what's Grigovic threatening to do?" Hawke asked. "Tell on you?"

"Worse," said Peterson with a grimace. "He's threatening to sell the information to the highest bidder. The auction's going to be held tomorrow. We need to have the data back before it happens."

Taylor frowned. "Why not just send someone to the auction?"

Peterson smiled wryly. "That's plan B. I'd rather it didn't come to that – I'm not sure I could explain several millions of my annual budget being given to someone like Uri Grigovic."

It was Taylor's turn to gape open-mouthed. "Millions?" she squeaked.

Peterson shrugged. "It's data that any one of several hundred terrorist groups and rogue states would like to get their hands on, and most of them have a bigger bankroll than the national product of a large country."

"So what's the plan?" Hawke asked.

"Well, if you're finished chewing me a new one," said Peterson dryly, "I have a full briefing waiting indoors. I don't know about you, but I don't find pre-dawn in the desert exactly toasty warm."

Peterson had a point, Taylor decided. It **was** cold standing there. She hadn't noticed it before; she'd been too wrapped up in trying to make sense of everything Peterson was saying. Since he'd drawn attention to it, however, she now realised that her hands had long-since gone numb. "Indoors sounds good," she murmured.

Hawke shrugged and said nothing.

After giving Hawke a long look, Peterson shrugged and led the way.

The inside of the building was a surprise to Taylor. She'd half been expecting the place to look at least slightly similar to the Silver Guardian's headquarters, but it didn't. Instead, it looked like at least half the corporate head offices she'd ever seen. The walls of the hallways had all been painted a soothing magnolia colour and, here and there, were various potted ferns and rubber plants. If anything, it reminded her more of Biolab's offices.

Somehow, that struck her as being wrong.

After a quick trip up a flight of stairs and along another magnolia-coloured hallway, Peterson came to a halt outside one of the offices and pushed the door open.

"Ladies first," he directed, ushering Taylor in.

The room beyond was plush with a thick carpet covering the floor and a wide window that looked out over the flight apron. In one corner of the room stood a wide wooden desk while the latest in computer equipment took up another corner. The third corner contained a long, tall cabinet, while couches and a door, which clearly led into the next-door office, filled the fourth.

"Take a seat," said Peterson, retrieving a file from the desk, "and we'll get started."

* * *

Twenty minutes later and Taylor was convinced that at least one person the room was insane; she just wasn't sure whether it was her or whether it was Hawke and Peterson. They were seriously plotting to fly a sortie into heavily defended territory with an untrained crewman onboard. Maybe she was the insane one; she'd agreed to do it!

She'd also seen far more satellite photographs of obscure bits of the former USSR than she'd ever imagined she'd need to look at. Most of the photos showed the land in and around Uri Grigovic's compound, which was very heavily defended. There was just one that specifically focussed on that complex and that was the one she was currently studying.

The compound was right in the heart of Kasmiristan, surrounded on three sides by mountains, leaving only one truly viable approach by air. That one approach was heavily guarded by anti-aircraft guns, which included something that Hawke blithely called a "chopper chomper".

"Chopper chomper?" she echoed. "That doesn't sound good."

"It's not," said Peterson dryly. "It's a reference to a particular arrangement of artillery that was dreamed up thirty years ago and is still effective. The official name for it's The Hammer." He rounded on Hawke. "And what makes you think there's a Hammer set up there?"

Hawke snorted. "Grigovic isn't dumb. Three sets of high ground surrounding his compound, only one logical entry point; it's a classic chopper chomper set up." He pointed to the three mountains on the satellite photograph and jabbed a finger down onto it in three specific points. "Gun there, there and there."

Taylor looked. The three places he pointed at showed a tiny bright spot, almost like sunlight glinting off a piece of glass, like a watch face. She blinked. Was that what it was? Or was it, perhaps, sunlight glinting off the glass of an anti-aircraft gun's range finder?

"I've got no intelligence reports of guns being placed there," Peterson pointed out.

"They're there," Hawke retorted, certainty lacing his voice.

Taylor looked again at the satellite photograph. If Hawke was right, and those were guns, there was no way to actually penetrate the area they covered and get to Grigovic's compound. Whichever way you went in, you always had all three guns pointing at you. She shivered. Suddenly, Hawke's nickname for the arrangement made sense.

"Can you beat a hammer?" Peterson asked, doubt in his voice.

"You'd better hope we can," Hawke retorted, "else you're going to lose a little bit more than just that data." He jabbed his finger down onto the photograph again. "Any idea where in the compound the data might be?"

"No," Peterson admitted. "Best guess is with Grigovic himself but---" He shrugged.

Hawke grunted. "All else fails, I can blow the compound sky high, I guess."

"That would deny the data to anyone else," Peterson agreed. "Though it's not exactly my preferred method."

Before Taylor had really considered what she was going to say, she began, "What if Hawke sets me down out of sight of the compound and I go in by foot?"

Two pairs of eyes suddenly fixed themselves on her.

"No," said Hawke, frowning heavily.

"What are you thinking?" Peterson asked.

Trying to ignore the glower Hawke was now giving her, Taylor ticked points of on her fingers. "You don't know where the data is; that means someone's got to go in and get it. I have intrusion experience and training. I'm betting Grigovic is expecting Hawke to be flying alone. Lastly, it's pretty clear Airwolf will fly without me; it won't fly without Hawke."

"No," Hawke repeated, more force to his denial.

"Why not?" When Hawke didn't answer, Taylor added, "Is it because you don't think I can?"

"It's because it's Grigovic," came the terse answer. "Do you have any idea what he would do to anyone he caught snooping around?"

"Fine," Taylor snapped. "I won't get caught. Do you have a better idea?"

Hawke opened his mouth to respond, but Peterson got in first. "OK. Much more of this and I'm just going to shoot the pair of you," he muttered. "Hawke, this isn't fifteen years ago and Taylor is not your brother."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hawke snarled.

Peterson's eyes narrowed. "You know damn well what I mean. You've read her file. She's a fully trained operative and she's fully fit. She can look after herself." Then, to Taylor's surprise, he turned to fix her with the same, annoyed gaze. "And you need to figure out that not everything that happens to you is because you're female. You don't need to prove yourself to me and you don't need to take part in any damn pissing contest. Am I clear?"

Before she could quite stop herself, Taylor answered, "Yes, sir." Then she remembered that Peterson wasn't her commanding officer and she wasn't actually back in service. She blushed.

Peterson, for his part, just rolled his eyes. "Hawke?"

"I don't like it," the pilot muttered. "Grigovic's going to be expecting someone." He grimaced. "With more time there'd be another option."

"But there isn't," said Peterson.

Hawke muttered something that sounded as if he was questioning Peterson's parentage. "We'll need fuel pick ups."

"Already arranged," Peterson replied. "One in Anchorage and one at the base in Kazakhstan."

And just like that, Taylor realised, it was all settled. She shivered. She was right; she **was** the insane one.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
